Survivor
by A. Rose Hill
Summary: Told in an outside POV, this alternate timeline fic focuses on the events unfolding before a young woman whose elderly neighbor turns out to be somebody she never would have expected. A visit from suspicious federal agents reveals something supernatural, and she is pulled along for the ride. Please R/R, it's much appreciated!
1. Extra! Extra!

Lord it was cold outside.

The early evening sky hung heavy with grey clouds threatening rain. Or, God forbid it, snow. I supposed being out on the asphalt of my driveway in my bare feet didn't help matters, but a quick run to the trash can didn't call for appropriate footwear.

Hurriedly, I shuffled across the biting chill of the drive and reached the large, brown bin. With practiced movement I lifted the lid, tossed in the overstuffed bag, and the faint malodorous stench of the previous day's chicken met my olfactory senses as the lid slammed down.

The wind had gradually picked up, and I repressed a shiver while turning to make a break for the back door. It was then I noticed a movement from the corner of my left eye. I craned my neck to look beyond a 2010 black Chevy Impala that sat parked in front of the russet-roofed garage next door. Two bumper stickers, situated side by side, read "The closer you get, the slower I go" and "Keep honking, I'm reloading." I chuckled to myself, and then lifted my eyes to the maw of the peeling painted red garage.

My neighbor, a man in his early eighties, peered about the front end of the otherwise pristine vehicle. His diminishing white hair hid beneath a faded blue and trucker's cap; the snow trail continued to cover his jaw and chin in a bristly scruff. Thick glasses, glossy and in typical 'grandpa' style, perched high on his nose and magnified green eyes that had years ago lost their sparkle. One garden-glove covered hand raised in salutation as the other fidgeted at a suspender strap clamped to a pair of old Levi's that hardly kept his button up shirt tucked into place.

"Hey." He greeted, not unpleasantly. He wore a tired expression that belied his tone.

I lifted a hand in reciprocation, having already taken a step toward the sweet warmth of my home, but I paused to watch him. I had not forgotten the cold and wondered how I always saw my neighbor outside without a coat unless there was snow covering the ground. Didn't old people get sick easier than others? What was he trying to prove, that he was still a tough guy in his twenties?

He bent to pick up a stack of newspapers. However, when half of them slid forward and plopped to the rocky path that was his driveway, I heard him curse quietly. I frowned and took a longing look at my house. After a moment of mental debate, I decided to run inside and tuck my feet into the cozy slippers sitting on the doormat.

I returned outside to see the elderly man restacking the papers and crossed the railroad wood dividing our properties.  
"Want some help?" I asked, earnestly.

His gaze darted to mine, eyebrows arching in surprise. We had been neighbors for the past eight years. Why did he look so shocked that I'd offer?

"Nah, it's not necessary." He shook his head, licked his lips, and took a wide, squatting stance. There was determination in him that his wiry frame would still be capable of the 'macho' feat of successfully lifting and carrying a fifty pound pile of newspaper.

Back in the 'good old days' I imagined that he might have been a bit taller. Maybe around six feet, and his composition suggested he probably had broader shoulders. However, age had certainly taken its toll on him. His shoulders bent in and forward and his back showed some slouch. It was as though the years had literally taken a weight and pressed it upon him.

I stepped in front of the man and crouched. "Come on, it's no trouble. You've helped me out enough. Besides, I don't want you to hurt yourself." I smiled and hoisted half of the papers into my arms before standing.

Occasionally, my neighbor would vanish with his son for weeks at a time. Out of those times it was often a road trip to Jesus knew where. Last time it had been somewhere off in the boonies of Colorado. I'd graciously take on the task of house sitting. Nothing required my entering his home; I'd collect mail and watch for thugs until he came back home. Sometimes, he'd arrive early. Other times, he'd be late by a few days with no explanation as to why. With his age I'd be lying if I said that it didn't make me wonder if he kicked the bucket during his excursion. All the same, as a thank you, he would make a point to rake the leaves off my lawn, or snow-blow the driveway, or bring my trash and recycle bins to the curb on pick-up day. Once, he had even climbed up onto my roof to fix a leak when I had been too afraid of the wobbly ladder to do so myself. For somebody his age he was an ideal neighbor. The guy didn't even mind my big oaf of a dog coming to say hello. Well, so long as my dog kept away from his car.

It amazed me that a geriatric like my neighbor spent a lot of his time on rooftops, doing yard work, traveling, or making repairs to his car and home. His wife had passed away six years previous, however, and he had once told me that he couldn't sit idle. I guess I understood. That kind of solitude could drive a person to insanity.

With a grunt of gratitude, though I spied a bit of an indignant frown on his face, the old man picked up the other half easily and trundled into the garage. I silently followed along, my eyes filling with the vision of cluttered chaos packed within the walls.

I had only ever seen the confines of the structure from a short distance. At first glance it would have appeared that my neighbor was a pack rat. He stored things like traffic cones, disused sports equipment, milk crates, coolers, and barrels. There were cardboard boxes likely filled by the things that any person would hate to let go. I wondered from time to time if the stuff inside had once belonged to his wife. Maybe he couldn't bear to keep it all in the house, but couldn't stand the thought of being without some reminders.

Upon further inspection, and while trying to watch my step, I noted that there was much more past the topical bric-a-brac. A gun rack exhibited rifles, pistols, and a sawed-off shotgun hanging precariously above an oak tool bench hugging the right-side wall. An array of product littered the floor beneath the weathered bench: borax; car wax; a tire iron; three flashlights; alcohol; rock salt; opened boxes of ammunition; shotgun shells; unsealed buckets, and a small, padlocked chest.

"Are you a gun collector?" I asked with vague interest, simply trying to make some conversation as I continued my optical tour of the spaces I couldn't get to.

"Eh," the start of a reply came. "Not really. Used to some hunting a while back. The urge to get rid of all my crap never struck."

I wrinkled my nose in distaste, but did not want to offend the man by expressing my opinion of people who shot animals for sport. I kept my mouth shut and let my eyes meander further.

My curiosity wanted to lead me toward the tool bench; however my gaze was diverted to the back wall by a flash of brilliant orange. It was a snow shovel leaning against some rolled up tarp. On the opposite side of the material sat two, rusty shovels rested, along with the snow blower, an axe (with no fireplace and no need for firewood, this possession bewildered me), an iron crow bar, and a large crate filled with car parts. Several maps of the U.S. and various countries were plastered to the drywall. Some of them were covered in post-it notes of which the writing had half disappeared; others had thumbtacks and red X's and O's connected by string or drawn in lines. A dart board lay forgotten in the corner accompanied by empty beer cans of an unrecognizable brand.

I followed the tail end of a frayed, nylon rope to an area above my head. The rope wrapped around the rafter beams to secure two long, heavy duty boxes. There were also fishing rods, tackle gear, and some garment bags containing what looked like a black suit and military attire.

"Right here." His voice cut through my exploration and I dropped the newspapers onto the dusty spot of the cement floor proffered to me.

It was then I noticed that nearly the entire left wall was dedicated to rows of yellowing, brittle papers. The expression on my face must have been enough to elicit the comment I received.

"What are you looking at?" My neighbor demanded, but did not wait for me to answer. "You offered to help me. I don't need you judging the state of my property."

I gaped for a second, embarrassed, before defending myself. "Oh, I'm not judging. Sorry. It's just…that is a _lot_ of newspaper." I glanced back to the piles and then back to the stooped man before me.

"Yeah." He replied curtly, eyeballing me as though I had stepped onto the bus to crazy town. I wasn't the one with an entire historical society's worth of Metropolitan Dailies and Gazettes. Nevertheless, I thought it wise to carefully word my response.

I shrugged, rubbing my palms over my arms in hopes that the friction would warm me. "Do you eventually haul it all off to be recycled? Or…I guess you probably don't." My eyes had caught the 1983 date on the top of a nearby stack.

The bearded man sounded off a dry, raspy chortle. "I keep it. Never know when something might need looking up."

"Ah." I nodded, though it didn't quite make sense to me. "Wouldn't that be kind of hard, depending on what you're looking for? It doesn't seem like any of these are in order. You know," I pointed, trying to be helpful. "The library has papers dating back decades all ready on microfilm. It'd save you a lot of trouble."

This warranted a derisive harrumph as he sauntered toward the tool bench. I watched as he removed his garden gloves and flexed his arthritic hands. "You sound like my brother." He muttered shaking his cap covered head.

My head canted to one side. "I didn't know you had a brother." The old guy never talked about any family other than his late wife, their son, and their granddaughter.

The elderly man stared at the nicked surface of the bench. He appeared to look through it as though witnessing a distant memory in the stained wood.

"I _had_ a brother. He's gone, now."

Well, didn't I feel awkward? It had felt I would apologize more in those last five minutes than I ever had in a week. "Sorry to hear that. When did he pass?"

Sometimes, the damned filter between my head and mouth refuses to work properly. That was one of those times, but obviously there was nothing I could do to bite back the nosy question after it flew from my mouth.

Bespectacled green eyes stared hard at me from beneath the trucker hat's shade. My neighbor noisily cleared his throat, flared his nostrils, and spat onto the mottled floor. "I didn't say he _died_, I said he's gone. There's a difference."

His gravelly voice had an undertone of darkness, and, somehow, sadness. The body language he'd shown warned me to consider keeping my questions to myself. Naturally, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Perhaps the years of retail customer service embedded into my soul could be blamed for the inclination to ask too many questions. Asking was the fastest way of determining the resolution to a problem. I should have considered, however, that doing so with a bit more finesse might be required outside of my job. Also, the rule likely would not apply to all situations.

Yet, the words spilled past my lips.

"Do you know what happened to him? Were you close?"

"_Sonuvabitch…"_ He cussed under his breath, glaring at me before bowing his head. The reaction had made me wince. I'd gone and stepped in it. "_No_, I don't know what happened to him. Doesn't matter if we were close or not. It's been a few years. You done pestering me, now?"

I reacted nervously, giving him a meek smile despite my feeling greatly diminished by the scowl on the man's normally placid appearance. "Yeah." I squeaked, and then rediscovered my voice. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry. Sometimes, I don't think before I speak."

"Damn right you shouldn't pry." His voice sounded more severe than he meant, and he softened his countenance. Raising an arm he made a dismissive gesture and gave me the smirk of a crotchety old man. "Forget it."

I was ushered out of the garage, and when the gravel crunched beneath my slippers I gave him another, sheepish smile. "Well, if you ever need help moving anything else just let me know. I've got a lot of free time. And, uh, I promise not to badger you with rude questions, again."

A sound balanced between a cough and a laugh escaped my neighbor and he adjusted the cap on his head. "Sure, sweetheart, and then we'll have tea and crumpets."

I raised an eyebrow at his sarcasm, and he snorted before continuing. "Thanks. You get on inside, now. Lock your doors." His eyes had gone skyward. "Looks like a storm is coming."

"Sure thing." I conceded, feeling the prickle of electricity in the air. The wind had picked up considerably and sent swirls of autumn leaves skittering into the street. A scent of ozone stuck acrid and thick in the air. "See you later."

An hour and a shower later, I was enveloped by the toasty atmosphere of my house. I had a date with my Snuggie, a mug of raspberry tea, and a fantasy novel.

It seemed, however, that other plans had been arranged for me.

Funny, how a perfectly normal day could escalate into something completely unexpected.

I'd been curled up with my book and tea, dog at my feet, for only half an hour before being interrupted. My Heinz 57 of a mutt suddenly leapt to his paws as though eighty-three pounds was nothing but feather weight. He raised his hackles, bared his teeth, and a low growl grumbled in his throat as ice blue eyes focused on the door.

It was a rare occasion that my pup growled at anything and rarer yet that he would go into full attack mode. That he did it before I heard or saw anything had immediately put a lump in my throat. Shaking, I had set my mug and book down and cautiously made way to my front window. I remembered, not without cause, that my neighbor had reminded me to lock my doors. Had he known something I didn't?

In retrospect, going to the window was probably one of the dumbest ideas I had ever had. Though, even now, I'm not certain that ignoring my dog or going to hide in a closet would have made a difference. Without the knowledge I have no there would have been no way for me to prepare for what met me that night.

Drawing back a sheer, white curtain I poked my head around the lit table lamp to see a pair of men standing on my stoop. They were dressed in pressed suits, ties, and polished shoes. I had briefly speculated that they might be Jehovah's Witnesses, as our suburban neighborhood was prone to getting them at any 'decent' hour.

One was reaching for the doorbell, but when he noticed my face through the glass he instead flashed a badge in my direction.

FBI.

I let the curtain fall back into place as I straightened my posture. My heart was pounding. What the hell did the FBI want with _me_?

For a few seconds I had wondered if they were there to bust me for downloading copious amounts of sketchy Japanese animation, or maybe for the music I'd pirated over the years. Though, that wasn't strictly monitored without reasonable cause, right? I gulped back the lump in my throat and proceeded to send my dog to his bed in the far corner. His grumbling had not ceased, but he obeyed to what I gathered was the best his overprotective heart would allow. The dog remained sitting up, alert, eyes switching between me and the door as though telling me not to answer.

I opened the door.

Keeping the screen locked between me and the feds, I took a closer look. Both men had appeared to be in their mid-thirties. The man on the right, who had flashed me his badge, was thin, blond haired and blue-eyed, and wore a smile that didn't quit. His partner was built like a linebacker, had darker features, and set his lips into a grim line.

"Agent Barnes and Agent Townes, FBI." The bigger of the two, Barnes, also made a show of holding up his credentials.

"Uh…what can I help you with?" I choked out, barely keeping from jumping out of my own skin.

Agent Barnes gestured toward my neighbor's place, his figure illuminated by an impressive display of lightning on the horizon. "We wonder if we could bother you with a question or two concerning the man next door."

In the background, my dog huffed from his corner as though offended. I narrowed my eyebrows. "You want to know about my neighbor?"

Hard to think that they could be interested in the old man I had helped an hour before their arrival. The guy would be pushing ninety in a few years, so what could the Bureau want with him? It had struck me, morbidly, that perhaps I had been living next to a wanted mass murderer for the past eight years, but the notion seemed improbable.

Agent Townes kept his sunny smile, which looked eerily out of place in the gloomy backdrop. The fluorescent flashes of lightning had begun to come more often and had given him the appearance of a hungry shark. "Yes, your neighbor. There is a matter we have come to check on, but we need verification before furthering our investigation."

That moment had become the turning point of my confusion. Why on earth was I needed for all of this? I knew that agents would come seeking information after a crime had been committed, but as far as I knew there hadn't been a crime.

"Is there something wrong? Is he in some kind of trouble? Why can't you ask him your questions directly?"

The way they had trained their eyes on me, unblinking, caused my unease to grow. My rapid fire of inquiries was a result of scrambled nerves. I no longer blamed my dog for being on edge before I knew the men were at my door.

Barnes shook his head. "We have been on a trail for some time. It's possible that your… _neighbor_ may give falsified information to evade justice."

I mulled over this, nodding as I comprehended. "I suppose that makes sense, but what could I know about him? I've lived here less than a decade, we don't speak much, and I don't know a whole lot of personal information. Maybe you should try a different neighbor. Mrs. Bothell across the way has been here almost as long as my neighbor."

I had rambled, praying that I would be rid of the two Federal Agents. Barnes and Townes exchanged a surprisingly pleased expression.

"We appreciate the information, but what you know should be plenty." Townes said, maybe in an attempt to reassure me that I could help their "investigation".

Whatever line they were dropping I didn't want to bite. Every instinct had told me that these men were not who they claimed, but I had no means of proving it one way or another.

Agent Barnes cut in where his partner had left off. "All we need is a name."

"Shouldn't you already have that in your files?" I looked quickly between the duo. My stomach had tightened into knots and there were goose bumps raised on my flesh.

Looking back, I should have heeded the fight or flight signals my body had given me. On the other hand, my cooperation might have been what kept me safe for those few minutes.

"We have _a_ name." Barnes snorted in frustration.

Townes kept his disarming smile. "We need verification. For the record. You _do_ know your neighbor's name, don't you?"

Something cold gripped me at my core. My dog had come to my side, ignoring any previous command to stay put. His body was rigid beside me and I had curled my fingers into his thick, rusty fur.

"Of course I know it. It's…"

I faltered for only a split moment between the previous word and the next. A hair's breadth of time in which I watched the Agents' faces morph into eagerness. They were as slathering wolves stalking their prey. I knew something was off, but I couldn't stop myself.

"…Dean. His name is Dean Winchester."

The pair of feds seemed maliciously pleased with themselves. And then, by no trick of the light or shadow, their eyes flickered completely black.


	2. Something Wicked

Chapter Two: Something Wicked

What happened next was about as surreal as things had ever gotten for me. The lock on my screen door proved highly ineffective to the strength of Barnes' beefy hand ripping the thing right off its hinges. My dog had ceased his growling and was reduced to weanling like whining as the two men stepped over the threshold and into my home.

"Rowdy, get back!" I remember shouting to my oversized mutt. He had tensed beside me, as though uncertain whether to listen or to stay and attempt to protect me.

I knew that I was in trouble. When every base instinct had told me that the two men at my door were anything _but_ who they claimed, I had gone and flat out ignored it. My dog made a feeble go of a growl, seemingly growing back the balls he'd lost when I adopted him, and lunged for Townes.

The smile had not left the blonde's sharp features even as the big Lab mix showcased his long canines and snapped at the agent's leg. Townes' smooth voice simply remarked, "How adorable. Puppy wants to play."

In the next moment, 'puppy' had been thrown across my living room and clear into the kitchen without ever having a hand laid on him. I heard Rowdy yelp in pain, but my body would not allow for me to turn and check to see how badly he was hurt. Through no will of my own I found that I could not even back away from the intruders.

"How…who..?" I stammered, unable to find my words. Barnes and Townes leered over me as though I were a lamb led into a lion's den.

Their eyes remained unmistakably the color of pitch. Every part had been covered. The iris and the whites were indistinguishable from each other; it was as though somebody had taken the ink of a squid and filled in their sockets. While I had always entertained the idea of the paranormal and supernatural being more than fairy tales I never thought I would wind up one of those people with a story to tell.

Admittedly, my first thought was an ironic one. What if they were aliens posing as FBI agents and my neighbor, Dean, was their secret leader? Of course, it sounded ridiculous after I had finished the thought and it was clear to me that I was dealing with something much more dangerous and fearsome.

Townes had the heart to let me in on their little secret, and to this day I have difficulty making sense that I was ever involved.

"Ah, look, I think she's noticed we aren't exactly human. Isn't that precious? Are you afraid?"

I clenched my jaw and tried my best to appear brave. My trembling voice, however, would give me up. "Not really."

"It's not nice to lie." Barnes smirked at me. His sausage fingers clamped a vice grip on my cheeks and pressed them in until I felt my molars cutting into the flesh of my mouth.

I raised my arms and gripped at Barnes' arm and dug my fingernails into the flesh trying to get him to release me. It didn't work. He hadn't even seemed to feel it, and his grip got tighter.

"Play nice." Townes cooed and stepped up next to his partner. I had not noticed it before, but there was something strangely effeminate about the way the guy spoke. Coupled with the enormity of weird unfolding before me I had started summoning up my willpower to wake up.

There was no way that any of this wasn't a dream. I'd fallen asleep while reading, and at any moment I would snap awake to the feel of lukewarm tea dribbled down my pajamas.

Fortunately for me, Townes had apparently been the one calling all the shots. Barnes finally let me go, only for his hand to be replaced by the slender fingers of the blond.

Shining, black eyes held my gaze as though trying to penetrate my skull. My arms hung limply at my sides. I had given up fighting them. If Townes could telekinetically throw an eighty pound dog across a room I wouldn't stand a gnat's chance in honey trying to break free. I surrendered myself.

"…are you going to kill me?" I whispered as my resolve faded.

Townes pursed his lips as though this had never crossed his mind in the first place. "Oh, I really think that depends on how things go with your neighbor. Tell you what: If it all runs hunky-dory, I'll let you go and you'll never have to even remember this night happened."

"What are you going to do to Dean?"

"Don't worry about it just do as you're told." Barnes piped up. Apparently, playing the part of back-up singer was ill-suited to him, though Townes silenced him immediately with a wave of his free hand.

"What my colleague suggests is highly recommended. You'll find out soon enough, and I think you'll see it through your own eyes." The slender agent leaned in closer. I had the fleeting notion he would try to kiss me, though my mind was quickly focused on the two fingers prying my jaw down to open my mouth.

I tried to shake my head when the pads of the fingers pressed into my tongue. The whole situation had just gone from weird to utterly bizarre when Townes threw his head back, opened his mouth, and an oily, black smoke poured forth. I could hear Rowdy whimpering, giving me, for the time, a bit of relief that he was alright.

Outside, the wind had howled fiercely and the static of the electric storm had swept into my house. The energy revolved around Townes' body and it had clicked in my head that the smoke had possessed the man.

When the curl of smog snaked toward me I began to scream in a panic. I had never heard myself make such a racket like the one I did that night, but it was short-lived. The thick, cloudy pillar forced its way past my lips and nixed any sound trying to leave me. My eyes watered and my nostrils burned. I could taste heat and pollution; the scent of rotten eggs- like sulfur- overwhelmed me. Gagging, I was totally helpless against the invasion.

Within a few seconds the transfer completed. My mouth closed, but it wasn't _my_ mouth anymore. I had become a vessel to this intruder, this _thing_ that writhed inside my body and made itself at home. No movement belonged to me as the body-snatcher checked over its new suit. I screamed, but it only echoed into the mind we were both sharing.

"Keri Waller," my voice had spoken my name without any consent from me. The thing inside shrugged my shoulders and then slowly ran my hands over every part of my body. I would have shuddered if I had the choice at being so thoroughly checked out by a strange entity. "Nice rack."

I groaned, inwardly, and watched through my eyes as though I were looking through a camera lens out at the world. The only benefit I could find in being possessed was that I was introduced to information about my assailant that I had not before known. For instance, I discovered that despite being a stream of black smoke the thing inside me was female. She also felt infinitely more comfortable inside of my body than inside the FBI agent.

I also learned the truth about what exactly I had come face to face with: Demons. Honest to God demons straight out of the pits of Hell. I was never particularly religious though my grandfather had hammered it into my head all of the stories in the Bible and how demons walked among us. I'd assumed it all allegorical, yet here they were. One in front of me wearing a human man's body while poking the toe of his shoe at the freed man who had either fainted or was stone cold dead, and the other made herself nice and cozy smack inside me.

Well, there was no denying what Grandpa taught me anymore. I wondered if he believed in the stories he told me, and thought that it was a damn good thing he had been so religiously devout. I doubted that Hell would have suited him from the flashes of memory I had gotten from my hijacker.

Barnes motioned toward the opened doorway where the electrical storm raged just beyond. My lips curved into a slight grin and I walked past the huge, demon possessed man and out. I could feel my hair whipping freely around my face as we—I and the evil inside—briskly clipped to Dean's house. Barnes had remained behind in order to keep up appearances that it was just me paying a visit to my neighbor.

In my pajamas.

At seven-thirty in the evening.

My kidnapper showed no sign of this being worrisome. It was as though she had access to every memory stored away, and apparently I had done much too much of walking around outside in my nightclothes.

The soft glow from a lamp inside of Dean's home shone through the front bay window invitingly. I tried to will him out of his front room where we could clearly see him eased into a cushy armchair watching some spaghetti Western on his boxy television.

"Man, talk about being behind the times." _She_ muttered, clearly entertained by the sight. "Must be too cheap to spring for a flat screen, huh?"

If she had expected me to answer her I disappointed. After a moment longer, my hand knocked rapidly on the yellow painted door.

The old man turned his head and adjusted his glasses before he realized who he thought to be me standing on his porch. Any inclination I had that he was somehow in the know of what was going down that evening drained away from me. My resolve that Dean had told me to lock my doors and warned me out of knowledge of coming events had deflated completely when he came to answer my knocking.

_It's a trap!_ I wanted to shout at him. And then I was quickly reminded that my life was, too, in jeopardy.

What an irritating conundrum.

A minute passed before Dean finally opened the door to us and he glanced past it at the storm. He sighed, as though wondering why he was being bothered.

"Sorry to interrupt your down time." My voice sounded oddly foreign. "I was hoping that you could help me out for a sec?"

Green eyes squinted and his lips pressed together as though he tried to hold back his annoyance.  
"If you came to borrow a cup of sugar I'll let you know now I don't have any. Diabetic." He spat out the last word as though something bitter had touched his tongue.

"Remind me not to bake you any pies." The demon quipped easily and then moved my arms to hug my body against the chill. "Could I come in and talk? I really should've grabbed a jacket, but I didn't think it'd get this cold."

_Don't do it. Tell her you're busy. _ I begged from my internal prison for him to shut the door in my face.

**_Oh, please. Like that could stop me, princess._** The demon shot back at me in my voice, inside my head, as simply as one of my thoughts.

Dean didn't hesitate one moment. He swung the door open and shuffled his rheumatic body backward to allow room for us to walk right inside.

Once inside, he closed and locked the door and guided the way to his living room. The demon took stock of the layout. Bookshelves overflowed, knick-knacks that the elderly always seemed to collect over time were situated in no distinctive order, a sofa, the armchair, and the outdated television. The room was pulled together by a beige throw rug tossed on top of a thick, blue carpet. Quite clearly, the wife had done all the decorating and Dean hadn't changed a thing since he lost her.

"Why don't you have a seat?" He offered, gesturing to the plush couch against the far wall.

"Thanks, but this won't take very long."

The elderly man made way past 'us' and then turned his back to the television so that we were eye to eye. There was a gleam in his eye that I had thought he'd lost; only one who kept a particularly juicy secret could have that gleam.

"So then what can I help with, sweetheart?"

In that moment, I had realized that I should be ashamed for ever doubting that my neighbor was ill-equipped for what was happening.

The demon moved us forward two steps, and on the third all of my muscles froze. It was though an invisible wall prevented us from going any further. She tried once more and then, upon failing, groaned in frustration.

"You're an _ass_, Dean Winchester." More curses tumbled out of my mouth. When she finally calmed down my arms crossed over my chest and my jaw clenched.

My neighbor smirked underneath his whiskers and settled into his armchair. "Hello _Meg_. Long time, no see."


End file.
